


The Conscience of Dorian Gray

by Chugginghj7



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Angst, Gen, Ghosts, Guilt, moreangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26430787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chugginghj7/pseuds/Chugginghj7
Summary: One week. Seven full days. Seven suns, seven moons, seven. It was how long it had been since Dorian last saw Basil Hallward.Basil Hallward had been a painter. Basil Hallward had been nothing but kind to people. Basil Hallward had glassy eyes that stared into nothing. Because Basil Hallward, was dead.
Kudos: 8





	The Conscience of Dorian Gray

Dorian hadn’t thought about it too much. Why would he when he has better, much more pleasant things to think about? Like how  _ handsome  _ he looked today. Not enough people complimented his looks these days. 

Basil used to compliment his looks all the time, but he couldn’t do that anymore. It’s a shame. But there was nothing Dorian could do about it. He’d seen the painting. And who knows what he could have done from there. 

No, he had to go. There was no getting around it. But Dorian still couldn’t resist going back into that dreadful attic. There was just something so utterly fantastical about it that practically drew him up the stairs to the fateful room where Basil had taken his last breath. 

Dorian had filled the room with items of all sorts of beauty. Flowers of vivid pinks, bright yellows, and saturated purples sat in vases and hung over boxes that were painted with a rainbow of colors. Mirrors and photographs adorned the walls and leaned against the boxes, their intricate and ornate frames catching the light of Dorian’s candle. 

With no prior knowledge, the attic was quite possibly the most gorgeous place to just sit and collect your thoughts. And for a moment, Dorian wished it was. He wished he did not know better. He wished he could sit there between the chain of withering daisies and potted petunias with Basil and laugh about the people they had met with that day. He felt...remorse. Maybe.

Wait, no he didn’t. He couldn’t. That would be much too silly. He shook his head to get those nasty thoughts out. This was no cove where friends come to sit. And he and Basil had never been friends. Basil had been nothing but a man Dorian once knew who had painted a portrait. 

And that very portrait was standing behind the boxes painted with the lovely landscapes. Behind the vases and flowerpots and daisy chains. Behind the mirrors, and the photographs of a simpler time. Underneath a faded white cloth, though time had changed the shade darker, and closer to an off-white or cream. It leaned against the only window, blocking out the light. 

Dorian examined the floor where the excess sheet was bunched up on the wooden slats. Not a speck of blood. Not now. But seven days ago…

One thing he had been grateful for was that he hadn’t been responsible for cleaning up. Because it would have surely stained his clothing. And not because he cared whether or not Basil’s heart was still pumping blood throughout his body. It had been a good heart though….but it didn’t matter. It was all cleaned up now. Like nothing ever happened. 

For one reason or another, Dorian just couldn’t move that sheet. He had his arm out. He could feel the rough fabric between his fingers. But he couldn’t bring himself to pull down the cloth. He couldn’t gaze upon that...thing ever again. That portrait was no longer of him. It was nothing more than an ugly waste of attic space. He spun on his heel and left the attic.

He wouldn’t grace Basil or his awful, ugly curse of a painting with his thoughts ever again. What did it matter? Basil had given him a revolting excuse for a portrait. It was nothing. Basil was nothing. Dorian shut down all those thoughts along with the attic door.


End file.
